


Yesterday and Today

by Winteriscomingforsteve



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: AU, Cuddling, Cuddling and Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Hurt John, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, Husbands, John and Sherlock with three kids, John is sick and Sherlock is just trying to be a good husband, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, Johnlock family, M/M, Sick John, Sick John Watson, Sickfic, baby Charlie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 19:23:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12800688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winteriscomingforsteve/pseuds/Winteriscomingforsteve
Summary: Illness strikes the Holmes-Watson family. The doctor is never a good patient.





	Yesterday and Today

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This is my very first fic on the archive and I hope everyone who reads it will enjoy it! 
> 
> I did minimal editing on this so please let me know if you see any major mistakes x

The typical nightly routine of Sherlock dicking around in the living room before bed had never annoyed John. In fact, John deemed it nearly essential for Sherlock to have at least some time to run experiments and do whatever the hell he wanted. John condoned it. Otherwise, his fidgety and distracted husband would deposit himself in bed and bring John damn near close to drugging him through his tea or murdering him. Possibly both. 

It was the accumulation of children that had really brought about Sherlock's intensified night sessions of science experiments. Rosie, once John had moved back into Baker Street (and soon after married Sherlock), had not posed a single problem initially. Rosie quickly maintained a consistent sleeping schedule and was fairly easy to entertain. But once Rosie had gotten older and began to walk around and talk Sherlock's tendency to be exceptionally spontaneous became problematic. 

And then there were two children. Then three.

Thus, John was fine with Sherlock's late night endeavors. At least it kept the man properly occupied mentally after the children wore him out physically. 

But tonight, goddammit, John was not particularly in the mood to listen to the colorful array of noises sprouting from the living area. He was not in the mood to giggle at the curses that could occasionally be heard through the halfway closed door. 

Now, this was certainly not because John was angry with his spouse. It was more complex than that. It had all started just a few days earlier, with of course, the children. 

It started with Clark. Clark was only the ripe age of 3-and-a-half and he had many of the same qualities as Sherlock. John had witnessed Sherlock's countless attempts to teach the young boy the art (the science of it being much too complex for a toddler) of deduction. While most of the attempts proved to be a lost cause, Clark's mental skills were strong, not unlike his Papa's. But this very morning, the boy's normal enthusiasm was negatively channeled into loud sobs. Sherlock, unsuprisingly awake but unwilling to move, informed John that he was being summoned and allowed the older man to curse him out. John begrudginly pulled on his dressing gown and shuffled upstairs into the toddler's room. 

John was immediately informed by a scowling little blonde that, "I had an a-a-askident Daddy." The little boy quickly fell into John's willing embrace and told an excessively detailed fib about the reason for said accident. Like the Daddy John consistently strived to be, he administered cuddles and reassurances all while cleaning up the urine and changing sheets and Pajamas. As expected, despite the fact that it was four in the morning, Clark just could not fall asleep despite his Daddy's attempts to convince him. 

"Well, if you are not going to sleep I'm taking you back to Papa and I's room. Don't want to disturb Charlie." John said this moreso to himself than his son, but Clark nodded anyway and scampered off ahead of John. The squirmy three-year-old made himself at home in the crook of Sherlock's arm who was smiling deviously as he tickled Clark's sides. After scolding Sherlock with the little energy he had left, John undressed back down to his boxers and let himself decompress slightly as he fell into the sleep warm sheets. 

Clark, as expected, immediately fell asleep and left both his Daddies wide awake. 

"I suppose the next one is mine?" Sherlock asked as though it was a legitimate question. 

"Undoubtedly." John responded flatly, "What a spot on deduction that was." Sherlock snorted a little bit and let out a soft sigh. 

"Based on Charlie's normal sleep pattern and the existence of a disturbance I predict he will awake approximately at 7:13 A.M: with two minutes as room for error." Sherlock provided this type of information often despite John's infrequent verbal responses. John let out a sound that copied Sherlock's earlier snort and allowed himself to drift off. 

John, for some inconceivable reason, had for a minute believed that he could make it to seven-thirteen in the morning in a state of blissful sleep. That was most definitely a mistake. 

Charlie's cries erupted much earlier than Sherlock's predictions. John's initial thoughts registered that Sherlock was wrong which was terribly unusual. He heard Sherlock's muttering as he untangled himself from Clark's tiny body and cautiously but efficiently propelled himself from the room. John laid silently as he was unbearably aware of his awakeness. He could still hear the the persistent cries of his youngest son despite Sherlock having left a minute earlier. 

John pushed himself up in bed and contemplated going to see if Sherlock had become distracted. However, before his thoughts could manifest into something more, Clark's tiny hands buried themselves in the edge of his shirt. John smiled softly in the dark and couldn't bring himself to move away from the little boy. 

It was several minutes more of listening to Charlie's helpless cries before John began to become slightly concerned. However, just as he was about to try and extract himself from the bed he heard the creak of the bedroom door and the alarmingly loud desperate whines of his baby son. 

Sherlock looked white in the face as he crept to John's side of the bed. John immediately held out his arms and Sherlock deposited the warm, snuffling bundle into his husband's awaiting arms. 

Charlie was an adorable baby boy of just six-months-old. The child was normally happy and often did not throw much of a fuss over anything. With these facts in mind, John found it remarkably unusual that Charlie was suddenly a whiny and clingy mess.

"Oh, darling." John sighed softly as he took stock of Charlie's increased temperature and his slightly runny nose. John ran a gentle hand over the soft brown hair of his son's head and cooed softly. 

"Based on his fairly obvious symptoms, including a fever, dry cough, and diarrhea," Sherlock began relaying his observations effortlessly, "This is almost a definitely a mild case of the common-"

John cut off Sherlock's useless rant, "The flu, I know Sherlock. I am a doctor in case you forgot." John watched Sherlock retreat slightly from the side of the bed. He felt a bit guilty about making such a crude remark when Sherlock was probably just rambling because he was worried. "Sorry, let's just go into the living room to sort him out. Clark will wake with all this extra noise." Sherlock nodded slightly and watched John as he carefully inched his way out from under the covers. 

A sudden wail emerged from Charlie as soon as John managed to stand up straight and grab his phone from the side table Sherlock's worried gaze watched hauntingly from the side as John bounced Charlie slightly and attempted to pull on his dressing gown over his briefs 

As soon as John made a move toward the door Sherlock cut in front of him and efficiently swung open the door. John nodded in thanks and began the short walk through the kitchen and toward his beloved chair. 

John sat heavily (dare I say tiredly) in the soft cushioning of his chair as Sherlock followed suit and curled up into his own chair, his eyes wide with concern. John could feel Sherlock's sorrow raidiating off of his pale form. 

"Sherlock, he is going to be alright. No need to worry." John reassured. Sherlock looked wary but nodded nonetheless. 

"Let's find out what is wrong with you lad..." John said more to himself than Charlie but the boy let out a soft moan in response as John pulled him away from the warm fabric on his shoulder. Charlie was dressed in an adorable duck patterned onesie and his brown locks were haphazardly strewn about. The prominent redness of the normally bright blue eyes was evident in the light of the living area. John brought a gentle hand up to feel Charlie's temperature. He is just too warm John thought as he pulled his hand away to wipe away the stray tears on Charlie's chubby cheeks. 

"Sherlock, can you get me the thermometer and a warm bottle? And maybe Charlie's blanket too?" John asked calmly and looked to Sherlock for a response. In contrast to his normal verbal blabbing, Sherlock simply nodded and untangled himself from the chair to complete his given tasks. 

While Sherlock was silently yet swiftly addressing his assignments, John was mentally preparing himself to inform Sherlock of his plans for later in the morning. Although he physically could leave Sherlock home to take care of both Clark and an obviously ill Charlie, he had already thought better of it. His plans were decidedly not to work at the surgery, rather he would take Charlie to the surgery instead to be examined and provided with medication. 

"I am staying home from work today." John informed Sherlock as soon as he had delivered Charlie's warm bottle of milk, the thermometer, and the soft blue blanket that the baby had become attached to. 

"John, if this is because you don't trust me with a sick child-" Sherlock started his usual rant about his capabilities, but John quickly decided to cut him off. 

"Sherlock, It is not that," John reminded his Husband, "Someone needs to take Charlie to the surgery and you can imagine the difficulty of that task if you must bring Clark along with you. I thought it would be best for me to stay and take Charlie to see a doctor rather than burden you with the job."

Sherlock looked somewhat surprised that John had come up with a non-idiotic plan for properly caring for a sick child. "That sounds... good." John just scoffed at Sherlock's reluctance to praise John's simple logical idea. 

"Now give it here." John asked impatiently as he motioned for the blue blanket and thermometer. John took the blanket first and gently pressed it into his son's small hands. The baby had whined gently as soon as he saw the familiar fabric and John's lips curled into a smile while he watched Charlie curl around his favorite comfort item. John immediately felt sorry for having to disrupt the child's newfound peace when he began going about procuring a proper reading for his temperature. 

Sherlock watched from the side in a nervous stance despite the schooled expression on his face as John studied the numbers on the thermometer with a frown. In John's professional opinion, Charlie's fever was low-grade and nothing to be overly concerned with. However, his better judgment told him that Sherlock's worry would not go away despite this development. "What does it read?" Sherlock asked, his impatience bubbling over as he reached out insistently for the tool. John handed it over and watched Sherlock form his own frown as he scanned the numbers on the screen. "Low grade." Sherlock whispered. 

"Not too high," John assured, "We should still have him go to the surgery to get some medication. Now hand me the bottle, would you?" Sherlock did as asked and John moved a whiny Charlie into a better feeding position. 

Charlie, unlike usual, was not quick to take advantage of the offering of food. John held the bottle to Charlie's lips like he always did, but the infant let out an angry howl and thrashed his head away from the object. John could feel the discontent radiating off of the tiny body, but he knew that proper nutrition and hydration were essential when trying to kick the common influenza. 

After several more tries including loud sobs, violent limb movement, and countless tears of anger, finally Charlie decided to latch onto the bottle. John and Sherlock collectively sighed in relief and the atmosphere of intensity disappeared. 

It was not several moments of comfortable silence before John felt his eyes going heavy. The extended amount of time being awake seemed to be catching up with him as he was finally able to soothe his distraught son. 

John must have closed his eyes, because suddenly he was opening them to the rumble of Sherlock's deep voice and a gentle hand on his face. "Darling?" Sherlock asked softly, his deep voice coaxing a soft hum from John's lips. As soon as John peeked his eyes open he was awarded with the sweet image of Sherlock's face. "Hey there, I was just going to check on Clark, maybe lay down with him for a bit. Maybe you should get a little sleep instead though." Sherlock whispered. He was crouched on the floor beside John's chair and his thumb was idly stroking across John's temple. 

"No Sherlock, I will be alright." John whispered back before he felt a slight shuffle from the bundle in his arms. Upon looking down toward the source of the movement, John found that Charlie had unlatched himself from the bottle and was sound asleep in the crook of his arm. Both Sherlock and John paused their conversation momentarily to coo softly. John sluggishly ran his fingers through the thin hair atop the infant's head. 

"Well then, I'll probably be in there for half an hour. My sleeping schedule has been interrupted far too many times this morning, I won't sleep." Sherlock informed, "Come get me if you need me." 

John nodded as he watched Sherlock stand and slowly lean down to meet John's eyes. Sherlock caressed John's face before allowing their lips to touch in a gentle kiss. With that, Sherlock disappeared swiftly and left John to the sleepy warmth of the living area. 

Whether it was the crackling heat of the fireplace, the soothing weight of the small child in his arms, or the darkness of the early morning, John found his eyes beginning to shut again. Before he could stop himself, John soon found that he was slipping into a deep sleep. 

\----

It felt merely as if it had been minutes before John was blinking awake to an insistent tap on his forehead. John's initial thoughts were those in regard to wanting to return to sleep, however, as his mind began to awaken he discovered a multitude of irregularities that convinced him to finally open his eyes. 

The first problem John realized up looeking down at his lap was that he most certainly fell asleep with a baby, but Charlie was definitely not cradled in his arms anymore. The second issue that arose was that John found the sky to be much lighter than it had been previously. The third change, in contrast to the first two, brought things into perspective. 

In front of John stood Rosie, pink-cheeked and bearing a slightly confused childish look. John rubbed at his eyes with his fists before peering up to meet his daughter's eyes. "Papa told me to ask you where my bag is."

"Your what?" 

"My school-bag. I've looked everywhere and Papa and I can't find it." Rosie folded her arms over her chest a waited John out as he processed her question. To be utterly honest, John's brain was not at all focused on a mental search for the myseriously missing bag. Sherlock definitely knew where it was being a self-proclaimed consulting detective and all. John instead decided that he would first find Sherlock and his ill son before trying to understand what was the matter with the bag. 

"Sorry sweetheart, I don't know where it is off the top of my head. Say, can I maybe go talk to Papa for a few minutes before I go looking?" John tugged his daughter into his arms with a sort of half-smile. Rosie giggled, obviously delighted with the affection. 

"Alright..." Rosie sighed once John had released her from the hug and her laughing had lightened up. "I can finish Papa's special eggs!" She suddenly blurted out as if she had just remembered. The outburst was immediately followed by an unnecessary dash to the kitchen. 

John stood up slightly dumfounded as he pondered over what Rosie had just squealed. John had never heard of the "Papa's Special" brand of eggs. Was it possible that Sherlock had actually decided to cook? If so, John knew it to be a rarity. 

John followed his nose and the delightful smell of breakfast into the kitchen. Inside the room sat Rosie and Clark at the overly cluttered table. Rosie was enthusiastically shoveling a pile of scrambled eggs into her mouth and taking precarious sips of orange juice where half of it ended up on her school dress. Clark was happily munching at a smaller plate of eggs with his right hand guiding the fork while his left hand was preoccupied with scribbling all over a large piece of pink construction paper. John's eyebrows were had been slowly rising as he took in more and more of the blissful morning scene. However, the image that caught his eye in the seemingly chaotic calamity was by all means his husband. 

Sherlock stood at the counter next to the stove in his dressing gown. On the stove, a pan of eggs was sizzling while Sherlock was deeply immersed in what looked to be the creation of a sandwich for Rosie's lunch. What amazed John most about the whole thing was not that Sherlock was actually preparing food for once, but rather it was the fact that Sherlock was carrying a sick, but well relaxed, Charlie against his shoulder whilst he happily went about cooking. John couldn't help but lean against the doorframe for just a moment so he could watch Sherlock's smooth movements as he whistled quietly to himself. 

After just a short while (or maybe five minutes) of watching the picture of domestic bliss from the edge of the kitchen, John began to make his way toward Sherlock while calling out to him. "Didn't know there was such a thing as 'Papa's Special eggs.'" 

"Good morning to you too." The pair shared a soft kiss as Sherlock stopped spreading mayo onto the bread. 

"Why didn't you wake me?"

"You needed the sleep. And I did wake you. I sent Rosie."

"Rosie said she couldn't find her school bag."

"That was just to get you up, John. It's right underneath the bookcase of course." John scoffed a little at Sherlock's snide remark. 

"Right," John announced as he took the knife from Sherlock's hand and began to spread the mayo himself. "Let me finish up here, you go sit down." Sherlock did as he was told and took a seat at the table. 

John could hear Sherlock chatting idly with the children while he finished making Rosie's lunch for her. As soon as he had rolled down the top of the bag a sudden panic kicked in. He had forgotten that he was not going to work meaning that he could not accompany Rosie to school. John looked at the clock and realized that Rosie had to leave for school too soon for either Sherlock or himself to be prepared to leave. John then nearly swore because he stupidly had not told Sherlock that they needed to call Alison at the surgery to set up an appointment for her to see Charlie. 

The accumulation of these thoughts made themselves present when John finally turned to his husband and let out a pathetically panicked, "Sherlock."

"Yes John, I called Molly and she agreed to come and escort Rosie to school today. The appointment at the surgery is scheduled for nine o'clock." John stared at Sherlock. He obviously was not in disbelief over Sherlock's ability to determine what he was thinking before John himself formed a coherent thought. Rather, his disbelief stemmed from the sudden realization that Sherlock actually remembered details that he would normally have eliminated on the basis of being "boring". 

"I'm surprised that all was able to fit in your mind palace Shelock. I know the space is unbearably tight with all those stacks of irrelevant information." John sassed slightly while he scooped the eggs from the pan onto two plates for Sherlock and himself. John brought the food to the table and slumped into his own chair after he had put Sherlock's eggs in front of him. 

Sherlock smiled at John and immediately brought a forkful of the maybe overcooked eggs to his lips. This exact moment was when Charlie chose to start throwing an absolute fit. 

It began with a bout of restlessness followed directly by a piercing sob which was only muffled by the fabric of Sherlock's dressing gown. Upon hearing the screech, Sherlock's eyes grew wide and he gently pulled Charlie away from his shoulder. "Charlie, what's wrong?" Sherlock sighed softly as he ran a tentative hand down his son's back.

"Why is he so fussy Papa?" Rosie asked quietly. 

"Charlie's got a bit of bug, Rose." John replied before Sherlock would inevitably begin laying out some stream of useless facts regarding the influenza. "He's just not feeling well and actually probably needs a change. I can take him Sherlock." John turned to Sherlock who swiftly tranferred Charlie into his hands. John stood up shakily and he could feel Sherlock's eyes on him. 

"John, you didn't eat. Why don't you stay and have a quick bite. I can change Charlie." Sherlock had caught John's hand in his own, stopping the elder man from going. John saw a flash of concern in Sherlock's eyes. 

John had not been feeling particularly spectacular since he woke up, but he was not exactly feeling terrible. John summed up his shakiness and slight sluggishness to a severe lack of sleep. "I'll eat in a minute Sherlock," John sighed. Sherlock, surprisingly, let John go without further questioning. 

John carried the restless baby into his and Clark's shared room and slowly completed the process of a nappy change with practiced motions. It was no less difficult than every other time, but Charlie's was weakened to the point where his flailing died off quickly and was soon replaced with helpless moans. 

John simply did the job effectively and returned to Sherlock with a minorly less fussy Charlie clinging to his shirt, eyes wide and teary. 

When John reached the kitchen table the volume of the room was much quieter than when he had been there not long ago. This led to the sudden realization that Molly must have collected Rosie. 

"It is only a bit concerning that it took you such an incedible amount of time to discover the absence of your daughter." Sherlock joked with a smirk playing on his lips. 

John ignored Sherlock with a grunt and sat heavily to eat his (admittedly well done) prepared breakfast. Clark took this as a beautiful oppertunity to recieve the full attention of both his fathers as he stayed put in his seat next to Sherlock. 

John tried to listen for a few minutes, he really did, but his mind was elsewhere. John new that illness was making its rounds in the late season of fall. The crisp air and damp weather was causing the flu to begin its yearly appearance. Thus, it was simply not a surprise that at least one member of the Holmes-Watson household had contracted it. The vulnerability of an infant to these types of viruses was not unusual, however, John himself had never been apt to accumulate these types of illnesses. For years John had taken the appropriate medications and preventative measures as required by all doctors and had seen thousands of patients with all types of symptoms. Yet, he always managed to avoid flu. John could physically feel his luck running out. 

As John finished his breakfast slowly he could feel a headache deviously creeping into the back of his skull. The ache seemed to originate from the back of his neck and work its way into every crevice of his body. While the feeling was unusual, pain was not an unfamiliar feeling for the doctor. 

John's thoughts of annoyance dissappeared suddenly as he felt a small hiccup from Charlie in his right arm. 

"He's about to-" Sherlock scuttled from his seat just as John realized what was coming. With one loud sob, Charlie began to empty the contents of his stomach onto John's lap, soaking the fabric of John's dressing gown and pants with a layer of milky slime. John managed to turn Charlie around with both arms to attempt and redirect most of the mess to the floor. Unfortunately, most of damage had been done as Charlie simply began to cry in huge pulsing sobs. 

Despite John's title as a doctor, the combination of a pile of warm sick on his front and his own weakened stomach due to illness forced him to look away before he could gag. 

There was a few seconds where John simply checked out; he focused exclusively on breathing slowly through his nose in attempt to stall his own sickness. In those seconds, Sherlock had surprisingly managed to escort Clark into the living room with instructions to sit and watch TV. John returned from his trance to find Sherlock crouched by his side, large hands reching out to pluck Charlie's agitated form from John's weakening grasp. John sort of gasped out a choked huff of laughter when he recalled the events of the morning. The day had barely started, yet, every possible complication had sprung up to stress John out. 

"John, let's get that dressing gown off of you." Sherlock whispered as he bounced Charlie impatiently on his hip. John relayed his affirmation with a single nod and stood with trembling legs. John held his breath as his shaky fingers peeled the sticky cloth from his skin. Not willing to walk all the way to the toilet with the smelly garment in hand, the soiled dressing gown was instead spread haphazardly over the back of a chair. 

"Shower, John." Sherlock reminded gently when his husband stood unmoving in the kitchen with just his pants. Any other day the image would have been a privilege, but the unnatural palor of John's skin and the sickly trembles wracking his body made the image largely worrying and unappealing. "I'm taking him to the surgery. You will stay with Clark. You are obviously stressed and showing the signs of the beginnings of illness." Sherlock declared just as John sluggishly moved toward the entryway. 

"No, you're not. I am perfectly capable of taking him myself. I just have a headache Sherlock; I am not ill." John's voice adapted the tone that he kept only for when he wanted Sherlock to know he was being utterly serious. His voice was filled with venom. It may have been an extreme measure for the situation at hand, but the shock and disbelief on Sherlock's face conveyed that John had adequately presented his point. Without a second glance, John began his less-than-intimidating march to the toilet. 

It wasn't minutes before John was sighing in relief under the pleasantly burning water of the shower head. The time in the shower gave him a moment to collect his thoughts. He found that he was not sure what exactly was fueling his vehement oppisition to Sherlock's concern and offerings of assistance. Was it his own pride? Was it Sherlock's arrogance getting on his nerves?

John used a physical shake of his head to rid of the complex thoughts; the ideas were irritating his headache even further. 

To John's delight, the shower made his skin gain more color and his aches dull. A look in the mirror proved that John had a bit more pink in his cheeks and his eyes were less glassy and red. 

After towelling himself off thoroughly, John took a few painkillers from the shelves above the sink and swallowed them with a gulp of water. He hoped that the store-brand medicine would at least curb the remnants of his headache quickly. 

John dressed in simple jeans and a jumper. Instead of putting product in his hair, he left it limply strewn across his forhead. With a last look at his sickly face in the mirror, John decided he had cooled down enough to make an appearance and help his poor husband with the children. 

John traipsed down the hall and through the kitchen to find Sherlock parked on the sofa watching television. Clark was snuggled into Sherlock's right side and Charlie seemed to be sleeping soundly in the crook of his left arm. John tried to be sneaky as he silently leaned against the doorway but Sherlock immediately sensed his presence. Sherlock whispered something to Clark causing the little boy to whine a little, but soon enough Sherlock was pulling himself off of the soft cushions Clark looked completely content to continue viewing the kids program witjout his father there to hold him. 

"Little more blood circulation I see." Sherlock commented on John's obviously slightly pinker cheeks, his own face expressing little emotion. 

"Yeah," John sighed and looked down to avoid eye contact. "Look, I want to apologize for being brash." 

"Apology accepted, John." Sherlock replied softly and lightly grasped the back of John's neck with his freed right hand. A gentle pull led John's lips to Sherlock's for a sickly sweet kiss. 

"Well," John giggled, "I should probably take Charlie and get going." Sherlock attempted to transfer the sleeping baby into John's arms without disturbing him and ruining the peace. Luckily, Sherlock's exaggerated care to swiftly move Charlie paid off as the infant stayed blissfully asleep. 

After collectively deciding that John would carry Charlie instead of putting him in a baby carrier for the short ride on the Tube to the surgery, the husbands shared a farewell kiss and John was off into the early winter weather with a well-bundled baby and his own appropriate dress. 

The trip and, frankly, the entire experience at the surgery went as well as could be expected when the subject of illness was an infant. As expected, Charlie woke almost immediately when the cold hair hit the exposed skin of his face. The little cries of irritation followed just a minute later as John finally made it to the tube. 

John's efforts to calm his son were usually successful. A few light caresses and a bit of happy baby-talk usually cheered the tyke right up. To the entertainment of the other passengers on the tube, John performed these comforting actions with little luck. Instead, he recieved frantic squirming and a squeal that indicated Charlie's immediate desire for his dummy. Belatedly, John realized in his rush to get out of the door he had forgotten to pack the lad's beloved comfort object in the baby bag. A few curses and a deep search into the bag found John pulling out an old dummy from Clark's baby days. Thankfully, Charlie was not completely opposed to this new object and immediately began to suck. 

Once John had bustled himself and a slightly subdued Charlie out of the tube (admittedly after John had almost missed their stop), it was a mad rush to the Surgery. John was out of breath as he stepped into the office, his lungs clogged with phlegm. The secretary, Nancy, laughed from behind her desk and made some off-handed joke about John's need to excercise more often. The joke wasn't funny, but John gave a good-natured and hearty laugh just to humor her. 

It was mere minutes of John attempting to engage Charlie with the office's small supply of children's toys before Alison appeared and ushered them into a room for examination. 

John's diagnosis proved correct and Alison praised John for actually bringing the child in for examination instead of medicating him straight from his medical bag. John scoffed at her comment, "We already have one addict in the house, two might be too many to handle."

Alison, whilst examining Charlie, commented on John's physical state with concern and recommended that she check him over as well. John, of course, refused and made a point of telling her it was only a cold although he clearly knew it was not. Unwilling to fight John and his lack of desire to properly be diagnosed, Alison let him leave with a gentle tease that she was going to call up Sherlock. 

John successfully left the surgery without any shots having to be administered to Charlie, and a script in hand to bring to the Chemist. 

The father and son took the tube back to the station near Baker Street and walked through the new accumulation of wet snow on the ground and large, sloppy flakes whipping at their faces in the wind. A quick stop at the chemist left them to make their way home. 

It was nearly lunchtime before John and Charlie approached the door of 221b. John was successfully soaked to the bone from his knees down and he could hear the soles of his feets producing squishing sounds as he painstakingly climbed the seventeen steps up to the flat. He and Charlie both sported runny, red noses with watery eyes adding to the treacherous effect. 

After fumbling with the keys close to five times, Sherlock finally opened the door, unable to withstand the irritating rattle of the keys missing the keyhole. Upon opening the door to the missing part of his family, Sherlock came face-to-face with a positively miserable set of beings with matching looks of discomfort wordlessly conveyed by body-language and facial expressions. 

"Oh, John." Sherlock said blankly as his now very apparently ill husband slumped over the threshold of the door and dumbed the baby bag onto the floor. John could feel his own body betraying him as his husband stared on with concern. 

John could feel the muscles in his legs failing him in weakness and his stomach violently pitched as his headach spiked. 

"Ca-Can you take'm 'Lock?" John asked brokenly of Sherlock as he closed his eyes in visable pain and held Charlie out. Sherlock took the baby immediately with one arm and used the other to physically steady John's collapsing form. 

"John what's wrong?" Sherlock looked panicked as he gripped John's upper arm and started pulling the smaller man toward the couch. John whimpered desperately and bent forward to attempt to quell the nausea swelling in his abdomen. 

"Come on John; we need to get you onto the sofa." The panic in Sherlock's voice ramped up a level or two as he tugged John's hunched form to the sofa in two giant lurches. John simply collapsed onto the partially soft cushions with a whine and rolled so he was facing the back of the sofa. His arms curled protectively around his stomach as his insides flamed. 

"I," Sherlock looked down at the whimpering bundle perched in his arms. Charlie looked as positively hopless as his father lying awkwardly on the sofa. "I'm calling Mycroft." 

John heard these last words as his body was overwhelmed with a lack of proper sleep and the intensity of the pain and aches. 

\-----------

John woke up nauseous. The feeling prompted him to shoot up from where he had been lying. His eyes snapping open, John noticed Sherlock sitting stock-still in a chair next to him. He was supplying a large silver bucket. John plucked the bucket from Sherlock's grasp and placed it in his lap. 

The disgusting process began with a sudden retch and John could feel Sherlock inch closer. After the round of dry-retching subsided, Sherlock began to card a gentle hand through the feathery, graying lock's of John's hair. His large hand massaged lightly enough as to not disturb his headache, rather, it was a pleasant contrast to the dull pain that was still pursuing his entire body. 

With an exhausted sigh, John wiped his mouth with his sleeve, allowed Sherlock to take the bin, and sat back heavily against the arm of the sofa. A moment of silence was enough for John to collect his thoughts, and make the sudden realization that the Children were nowhere in sight. 

"Sher..." John's voice cracked at the dryness in his throat. Just as quickly as he supplied the bucket just minutes earlier, Sherlock passed John a half-filled glass of water. Despite his shaking, John managed to drink all the water and more-or-less dropped the empty glass into Sherlock's awaiting hands. "Where is Charlie? Where's Clark?" John finally mustered, closing his eyes and resting a limp hand over his forehead. 

"Much to my disdain I was forced to phone Mycroft and request his assistance." Sherlock informed John.

"They're with Mycroft?" John asked, he didn't think that he had been out that long. 

"No, you were only out for a few minutes." Sherlock responded calmly. "Clark is with Mrs. Hudson. Charlie has gone down for a nap." 

"Oh." Sherlock stood and brought the now soiled bucket into the kitchen to be washed. 

"Mycroft will come get them later." He returned a minute later, the bucket clean and carrying an array of different medicine bottles. 

"Care to admit that you are ill yet?" Sherlock asked as John sat up a little and took another sip of his water. 

"Unfortunately, yes. Just a twenty-four-hour bug it seems." Sherlock smirked at John's reluctant admission and began to sort through the box of over-the-counter drugs. Sherlock's eyes skimmed over the various useless bottles. Cough medicine, allergy pills, eye drops. 

"Do you want medication to quell the nausea, John?" It was less of a question and more of a demand on Sherlock's part. John made a noise in agreement and Sherlock gave him a singular pill with a couple crackers. 

"M'not hungry. It's just gonna come back up." John protested as he stared at the unusually intimidating crackers in his palm. 

"No food, no pill John." A moan of unhappiness graced his lips as he brought the first cracker to his mouth and chewed slowly on the dry food. Sherlock proceeded to chuckle at John's disgusted look that was cast toward his husband after chasing the crackers with a bit more of the water and thankfully for John, the pill. 

"Nap or bath?" Sherlock asked while he brought the extra medical supplies back to the kitchen. John took a moment to ponder his options before deciding that a nice warm bath with Sherlock might relax his rolling stomach and clear his aching head. 

"Bath."

It wasn't a quarter of an hour before both Sherlock and John were disrobed and listening to one of John's soothing playlists on his laptop whilst they soaked in the warm water and watched the baby monitor. Sherlock sat at the far end of the bathub with John's back pressed flush with Sherlock's chest. The taller man curled his lengthy fingers into John's hair rubbing the scented shampoo deep into the roots. John couldn't help but release a soft sigh of content. The medication was finally kicking in and his stomach was settling. Sherlock's arms around his body was more than enough to ease the aches in his bones and calm his mind on any other day, but the comfort was just heavenly in John's weakened state. 

Sherlock spent time meticulously washing each inch of John's overly warm body and gently massaged the tightened muscles lining his shoulders and back. It wasn't long before John sat limply in his husband's arms, basking in the remaining heat of the water while listening to Sherlock's soft breath near his ear. 

"I love you, you know?"

"Yes, Sherlock. Yes."

**Author's Note:**

> The next chapter should be posted soon! All comments and kudos are very much appreciated xxx
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving to all who celebrate!


End file.
